Page 103 of 10 Days to Ruin

“I’m going to get yourskullrolling momentarily,” I snarl as I regain my bearings and advance on him.

Feliks laughs and slips one jab, then the next. But my low left hook buries itself in his gut, and the laughter comes wheezing out of him as he doubles over.

“You pay me too much to be a punching bag,” he grumbles as he dances backwards and gets set up again.

“Correction: I pay you enough to be a punching bag whenever I need one.”

His eyes gleam with thatOh, shit, there’s dramamischief as he dodges and scoots backward to the far corner of the ring. “Uh-oh. You need a punching bag, hm? I take it The Love Boat hit some rough waters?”

I bite down and charge toward him again.

Rough waters? No, that’s not it at all. The waters are too damn smooth, actually.

Maybe that’s why I feel the need to make something bleed. Feliks or myself—so long as something gets a little bit broken tonight, my world will be back to the way it should be.

All this niceness, this lavender-scented domestic bliss? That’s wrong. Way too fucking wrong.

Men like you don’t know what to do with happy endings, Sasha Ozerov.

We don’t deserve them in the first place.

The first round is pure exorcism. Every jab is another piece of that silly little dream getting shattered and bent beyond recognition. Feliks’ right hook grazes my temple when I linger too long on the remembered weight of Ariel pressed between my thighs.

“Focus, boss,” he pants, dancing back. Sweat glistens on his shaved head. “Or I’ll have to tell your bride I beat you up.”

I drive him into the ropes with an uppercut. “She’s not my bride yet.”

“Clock’s ticking, though. What’s left—four days, right?”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

The second round gets uglier. I let him land a body shot that knocks the wind out of my lungs, just to feel something that isn’t the burn of my own shame. He pays for it with a nosebleed that splatters across the mat like Rorschach ink.

Feliks raises his face and grins like a madman. “You know your problem?” He catches my next punch in his mitt, leaning in close. “You’re still swinging at your old man’s ghost instead of looking at what’s right in front of you.”

I punch. I miss.

“That girl doesn’t make you weak, Sasha.She makes youhungry.And hungry men?” He ducks me with a wet laugh. “They’re the only ones who survive this shit.”

I freeze mid-jab, knuckles hovering an inch from his ruined face.

The bell rings.

Neither of us moves.

Then, finally, I sneer in disgust, strip my gloves off, hurl them into the corner, and stalk away.

Feliks joins me outside a few minutes later. My courtyard is as silent as the Upper West Side ever gets. No birds or scurrying things to break up the noise; just the distant moan of the city at large.

“I should be getting paid extra for these counseling sessions,” he remarks as he settles onto the bench at my side.

My sweat is almost frozen on my skin and my breath coalesces in silver mushroom clouds in front of my face. “Extra pay as a punching bag, extra pay as a therapist—you’re going to bankrupt me if this keeps going, Vasiliev.”

He chuckles and drapes an arm behind me. “I think it’s moral bankruptcy you need to be worried about,brattan.You’ve already got enough money to last ten lifetimes.”

I sigh and stroke my chin. He’s right about that. He’s right about too damn much tonight.

“I’m getting sick of your perceptiveness.”

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